Night into Day

It was late Saturday night when I walked into His arms as He sat watching television. I was really just looking for a hug, for some closeness, for the comfort that comes from being held in the strength of His embrace. I didn't expect the suddenness with which He ducked underneath my sweatshirt and grabbed my nipple and sucked it hard into His mouth. The pain was wild and devastating and I was gone in a moment -- gasping and lost, incoherently wanting...

His command to get to bed sent me, addled as I was, off to take care of the unfortunate demands of perimenopausal feminine hygiene... something which caused Him to laugh at me when I finally did make it to the bedroom: "This is the way of an old, established M/s relationship -- I tell you to get to bed, and you head off to the bathroom to brush your teeth." I was immediately, contrite and ashamed, sure I'd once again screwed up everything, but He only laughed at my evident "confusion."

Of course, I'd undressed. He'd anticipated a significant paddling over the leggings I'd been wearing. Oh well. My loss. Significant paddling would just have to happen on bear skin instead. The paddle He had in mind is a lovely piece, made of two different contrasting woods, one dark and deep brown, the other a rich mahogany red tone. Shaped like some Hawaiian stringed instrument, the paddle is round, thick and heavy, with a smooth glossy surface. It stings and lands with a heavy thud that leaves the deep muscles aching long after the blows have ended. It is an implement that, if you didn't know it intimately, as I do, you would consider to be almost "artistic."

What I was in for on Saturday night was a bit of a hand spanking (just a bit) followed by a blistering round of 50 with that monster. I'd been turned on and loopy, but now I was stone cold focused on my fate. Kiss the paddle and ask... Please, Sir, may I have my ass blistered with 50 strokes of this paddle? Always the response is, "I'd be glad to..."

Penalties for breaking position, for breaking the rules, for not taking it well... We begin again. We double the count. We always up the ante. And, as usual, I am on my own -- no restraints, nothing to hold onto, just over some pillows, and stay put...

I have one of those remarkable, relatively unmarkable asses. Except for a couple of spots that have become somewhat fragile, I come through most "sessions" with almost no visible evidence of anything having happened, and when I do mark, it almost never lasts more than a few hours. There have been times when I have sincerely wished that my butt would do that trick that some do of turning 15 shades of black and blue. How handy is that? Surely Saturday night, I would have given my right arm for some sign of the deep agonizing bruising I was feeling to show up on the surface. But no such luck -- just that nice happy red that He loves so well.

At some point before we reached the appointed number, He decided to let me rest a bit. He laid His head on my back... and went promptly to sleep.

I waited, and waited, and waited...

My legs fell asleep and I began to shiver. Eventually, miserable, cold, tired, and still awfully horny, I figured out we were done for the night... I'd thrilled my Master into a dead sleep...

I turned off the lights and curled up (gingerly) into a ball next to Him and went to sleep.

Sunday morning, when He woke up, He was ready to pick right up where He left off.

I was achy, stiff, deeply bruised, and no longer dazed with endorphins or the intense longings of the night before. Still, I got back onto my pillows (harrumph). He took note of my lack of enthusiasm and asked what was wrong. At first, I was reluctant to tell Him, figuring that if He wanted to finish what He'd started the night before, it wasn't my place to say any different. He insisted though, and I didn't need a lot of encouragement to pour out to Him how really sore I was and how sometimes I wished my butt would just turn black so He could see that bruising...

He considered for a minute and elected to go with a very light, very intensely stingy, rubber whip instead of the paddle from the night before. In moments He was after me with that whip, laying lines of white fire on my ass. I howled and writhed through the first set, knowing I'd been given a reprieve, but still struggling with the intensity of the sting...

A short break, and He was back again. After me with a second set of strokes -- on and on and on. Just as I felt myself nearing the precipice, the point where I knew I would drop over the edge and float away into subspace on an endorphin cocktail, He stopped. I really felt almost cheated, but that happens all the time. I've grown accustomed to it. It is as if He knows how close I am to "getting away," and opts, almost instinctively, to keep me here and present in the pain of a session.

A bit more rest and He went after me one more time. This time though, I took off -- not into subspace, but into a full, rocking, crashing orgasm... Exploding under the whip strokes, I roared my way into the power and ecstasy that comes when I finally catch hold of the wave of the pain and ride it. It is the most amazingly wild, breathtaking, awesome experience -- driven by the rhythms of the whip and my own energies and His control and our utter connection in that moment... It was wild.

We finished out that session, coming out of the place it rocketed us to. Eventually we found our way to some good old fashioned, almost vanilla fucking, and damn, we were good at that, too!

When it was all said and done, it was as if we'd been wrapped around each other, making love for about 12 hours straight. That's the power that we hold between us, when it is flowing clear and balanced. That is what we carry with us. That is what we play with and that is what we exchange.

swan